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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454808">Supernatural: Writing on the Wall</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra'>Maygra</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reaper verse [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Future, Dead-Not Dead, Grieving Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reaper Sam Winchester, Wingfic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:02:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28454808</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>With the part of his brain that isn't <i>freaking-the-fuck-out</i>, Dean notices that the leading edges of the wings, when they emerge, are <i>white</i>; pure, pristine, blinding white, that rapidly darken and turn, the shimmer muted quickly into black. </i>
</p><p> </p><p>Dean comes to terms with what and who Sam is now -- it's not an easy realization</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reaper verse [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084151</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Supernatural: Writing on the Wall</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>+++++</p><p>It's weird the things Sam doesn't notice; like when he's hungry (if
he actually gets hungry), or when his clothes and his skin are filthy.
</p><p>He notices for Dean though, if they've gone hours without stopping for
food or drink, if Dean needs a shower or to do laundry.
</p><p>The thing is that Dean's pretty sure Sam doesn't need to eat or drink
any more than he needs to sleep. There's a new stillness in Sam that bugs
him, mostly because it's a reminder that no matter how much of Sam is still
his brother, there are parts of him that aren't. And it's not even anything
as obvious as the wings which alternately freak Dean out and fascinate
him. They almost seem separate from Sam somehow, like maybe they aren't
really there, except he can touch them and feel them -- when they move
they create drafts. And the few times Dean's actually seen Sam take off,
it leaves his mouth dry and his stomach rolling, and he never knows if
he wants to drop to his knees in awe or throw up.
</p><p>So he reminds him. He reminds Sam to change clothes or shower when his
clothing is caked with mud and blood, when his hair sticks to his scalp
from blood or guts or water or slime. He offers him food and drink when
he gets his own and Sam always takes what he offers and he seems to enjoy
it, but Dean's not sure if Sam actually tastes any of it or just remembers
what it should taste like. He suspects Sam doesn't know either.
</p><p>In some ways it's easier now, because Sam can't die or be killed. It
made him insane at first because Sam seemed a little too quick to jump
in front of things that Dean probably could have handled and Sam can be
<i>hurt</i>; he can bleed, he can break bones, can have his flesh laid open to the bone.
He won't <i>die</i> and Dean's not sure he processes pain the way other
people do, but it doesn't make it any easier to watch or see or be unable
to prevent.
</p><p>And when it happens, Dean's the one that pushes Sam to take off, to
go wherever that in-between place is that he goes to, because whatever
it is that wipes the wounds and bruises from his body, doesn't function
in the space Dean occupies. He's never seen the wounds themselves heal,
he only knows that he's oddly grateful when Sam shows back up and they're
gone. He might still be covered in gore and smell to high heaven, and the
scars Sam had before he died remain but new ones don't show. When he comes
back he's whole and unmarked.
</p><p>Well, except for the ones that have shown up since then that Sam didn't
have, that remain even when every other mark is wiped from his skin.
</p><p>He saw them by accident, by chance, although Sam does nothing to hide
them. In fact, Sam didn't know he had them. Otherwordly reaper or not,
he doesn't have eyes in the back of his head.
</p><p>Ectoplasm stains like tar and clings like the scent of dead-skunk. There's
no salvaging the clothes they wear -- even blood is easier to get out.
Dean takes first dibs on the shower, because for all that Sam looks no
better off than Dean is, Sam doesn't seem to notice how the oily stuff
clings or how it smells. "Don't sit on anything," Dean says when they hit
the motel room.
</p><p>"I know," Sam says without sounding pissy. He looks a little spacey,
which is something else Dean's noticed, that Sam and ghosts -- there's
a disconnect there of some sort, like a bad signal. He can still function,
and he can still handle a shotgun full of rock salt, but the spectral remains
of human beings Sam has a hard time focusing on, or having encountered,
acts like he took a sharp blow to the head -- like ghosts, real revenant
spirits of once living humans scramble his brains a little bit..
</p><p>"Come on," Dean says, grabbing a trash bag and nudging Sam into the
bathroom. "Strip down," he says and Sam suddenly remembers he's covered
in evil-ghost-slime, and that this is as routine as anything since it's
easier to ignore the stench that will remain if it's stuck to tile than
to the beds or carpet in the room Dean will be sleeping in.
</p><p>He's seen Sam naked but he doesn't make a habit of actually looking
at him, unless he's hurt, but since Sam reappeared, mostly Dean just shoves
him toward the bathroom when he needs to and ignores him.
</p><p>But the bathroom isn't that big and when Sam sheds his shirt and jeans,
and twists around to shove the clothing into the trash bag, Dean notices
them.
</p><p>At first he thinks it's dirt or ectoplasm or something -- bruises maybe,
because Sam had gotten shoved pretty hard into metal racks in the warehouse
-- except they are too regular and too, well, curved, to be bruising from
the shelving. Sam goes still when Dean's fingers trace them.
</p><p>"What?"
</p><p>"Marks on your back," Dean says and he swears they look familiar --
in execution if not exactly form. Like script, Persian, maybe or Arabic
-- not the block and square patterns of any other language.
</p><p>And they are a <i>language</i> as much as anything, Dean's pretty sure
-- and he thinks he catches hints Angelic script in there, but only hints,
because he can't see the Hebrew, can't dredge up the Enochian passages
and references that should be there. This is not that -- it flows too solidly,
even the breaks in the pattern seem less like breaks and more like spaces
filled with something he can't see. For all that they look like tattoos,
there's no rise to Sam's skin, and the familiar moles and freckles that
paint his back show through even the darkest of the lines. He traces a
single line that branches into two then rejoins itself, a caduceus of sorts
only it's not snakes, it's just lines. Words and symbols and paths and
he traces one from the small of Sam's back to just left of his spine, fingertip
trying to track a single pattern because it looks familiar.
</p><p>"Dean?" Sam's voice sounds wrong -- too tight and too high and yet still
rough edged. "Stop, please."
</p><p>Sam doesn't move, but he's tense under Dean's hand, shoulders hunched
and head hanging low. He looks and sounds like he's in pain.
</p><p>Dean snatches his hand back and Sam relaxes. "What is it? Sam?"
</p><p>Sam only shakes his head, wipes a hand over his face and then grabs
up the trash bag. "Get your shower. I'll dump these," he says, twisting
around and sliding past Dean before Dean can see his face. Dean stares
after him, realizing a half second after Sam leaves the room that his brother
just went outside buck-naked.
</p><p>There are no screams of outraged modesty. It's late and hopefully everyone
else occupying this motel in the stretch of nothing at the edge of town
is sleeping. Dean waits though, eschewing his shower for a few minutes
in favor of listening out for anything that might be a problem. He's worried
less about something grabbing Sam or even someone seeing him than he is
with the reason Sam left the room in the first place.
</p><p>After five minutes, when nothing's happened he steps into the shower,
cleaning himself off thoroughly but quickly. He thinks he hears the door
open and shuts the water off. "Sam?"
</p><p>"Yeah." Sam sounds a lot closer than Dean expected and he pulls the
shower curtain back to see Sam leaning against the sink, head low. The
marks on his back are gone, but there's a ripple under his skin, along
his shoulder blades.
</p><p>Dean's seen Sam's wings appear before but never from this angle. He's
got that same feeling in the pit of his stomach -- a kind of nausea and
weakness that Dean can't explain. It intensifies when the skin of Sam's
back splits, the flesh just parting, but there's no blood, no glimpse of
the bloodied inside of his skin with fatty tissue and exposed bone. It's
like a line of white fire, tinged with blue, molten light pushing out through
Sam's skin, that spreads and spreads, almost too bright to look at only
it doesn't actually add more illumination to the small room than the 60
watt bulb in the ceiling.
</p><p>The metal grommets on the shower curtain screech and Dean realizes he's
about two seconds from pulling it down, he's clutching it so hard, his
knees weak as he watches the wings emerge.
</p><p>With the part of his brain that isn't <i>freaking-the-fuck-out</i>,
Dean notices that the leading edges of the wings, when they emerge, are
<i>white</i>;
pure, pristine, blinding white, that rapidly darken and turn, the shimmer
muted quickly into black.
</p><p>Sam is gripping the edge of the sink harder, bending low like they are
too heavy -- and in and amid all the shocked and awed mumblings and confusion
in Dean's mind, he knows that's not normal either. Sam's always "put on"
and taken off the wings like someone would shrug into a jacket or a sweater.
So easily, he sometimes doesn't even notice that they are there unless
Dean points them out to him.
</p><p>He's not making any sound at all, just white-knuckling the counter edge
and Dean isn't sure if it's a good thing to touch him or not but, he can't
and never has been very good at doing <i>nothing</i> when Sam is distressed,
and it hits him harder now because it's been a long time since he's actually
seen Sam in this amount of anguish.
</p><p>He has to duck around, because the wings are almost fully extended but
emerging far more slowly than Dean's ever seen them -- usually they are
there in a blink and gone in a heartbeat. He can't get in front of Sam,
and the only thing he can reach easily is his shoulders and back.
</p><p>"Sammy?" he asks, not even sure Sam is wholly with him.
</p><p>The moment his hands touch skin, those symbols erupt across Sam's back
with the tracing speed of a laser show. From the back of Sam's neck under
his hairline, they skim and sketch out in the same white-fire glare only
Sam's skin doesn't split, or peel back. It does go black though; the lines
and curves going dark like there is some unseen hand sketching calligraphy
across Sam's back too quickly for the eyes to follow. Some parts of it
fade almost immediately, leaving blanks space, <i>things unspoken</i>,
but obvious for their absence.
</p><p>It all happens fast: Dean's touch, the appearance of the strange message--
</p><p>Sam spinning around so fast, his left wing hits Dean with all the subtlety
of a Mack truck, but before he's so much as found himself knocked into
the wall, Sam's hands are on him, both gripping and steadying while Dean's
still shaking the stars out of his eyes.
</p><p>He blinks at Sam, who's got the most unreadable expression on his face,
that could be pain or grief or joy or ecstasy, so intense Dean has to look
away for a second.
</p><p>He can see the script on Sam's back in the mirror and for one brief
second it all snaps into place. He gets a glimpse only, and it's not reversed
-- it's not backward writing -- it's like the symbols have all been turned
inside out. He doesn't catch it all -- it happens too quickly, and his
gut reaction is as bizarre as the writing on Sam's back. He's not even
sure he's actually <i>reading</i> what he sees, only that suddenly and
without warning he understands a good many things he didn't before. And
what he does understand in that flash of an instant scares the hell out
of him.
</p><p>Then Sam's looking at him, like Dean's got some sort of answer he didn't
even know he'd been looking for. In the mirror, the symbols on Sam's back
shift and flicker, parts fading and other parts turning darker and Dean
traces a fingers along the ornate "S" curve that frames Sam's lower spine.
</p><p>Sam closes his eyes and drops his head again, fingers clutching at Dean's
shoulders hard enough for there to be a tingle along the nerves of Dean's
left arm. He traces the line again and presses his mouth to Sam's throat,
licks out and tastes salt and flesh, bitter and cold. Sam startles and
his breathing quickens, his skin flushing, warming. Sam feels solid --
he always had -- but Dean's suddenly not sure, after Missouri and Ellen's
whispered tales of shadows that the flesh he clings to, the face he sees,
while not entirely of his imagining, isn't entirely real either.
</p><p>Sam looks bewildered and confused, almost as if he's in pain, like he
used to look both before and after a vision and Dean remembers too clearly
the last time, the very last time that happened.
</p><p>If he didn't entirely wish Sam into existence, he's suddenly all to
clear how easily he could wish him into oblivion.
</p><p>The very thought of it makes him feel cold. Sam's no ghost, no revenant
spirit -- but he is more like the puppet that wants to be a boy or the
stuffed rabbit that wants to be real.
</p><p>"Dean?" It's no more than a whisper, question and revelation all in
one, and Dean lifts his head to stare at the mirror, to trace a second
set of symbols. Sam is shaking a little and the wings are fluttering in
what Dean can only call nervousness.
</p><p>"Humanity is written in the flesh," Dean says and watches the line fade.
It's not so far a leap of logic or even faith. And seeing it makes more
sense than anything Dean's been able to figure out about how Sam is now
and why. He's not entirely sure why he's literally seeing it <i>now</i>
though, or why the knowledge translates into something visceral and physical.
But he knows there's truth in what he feels, in what he <i>knows</i>.
</p><p>His brother <i>died</i> in a horrible and terrible way, in fear and
pain and confusion. Took his own life as a way to stop something even worse
from happening. Sam had been terrified and <i>lost</i> and Dean so angry
for so long he'd forgotten that.
</p><p>The Sam before him, up until this moment, has been missing all those
things. Not that Dean would ever wish fear or pain on his brother, but
those things make them human. To be afraid. To feel pain, loss, joy, anger,
regret, happiness.
</p><p>It isn't that Sam's no longer <i>human</i>, it's that he's lost all
the things outside biology that make him so.
</p><p>Dean isn't sure reminding him is the best thing to do, or that it's
even what Sam wants, but watching him over the months, how much he's forgotten,
the bits of Sam's own <i>history</i> that have been fading, until the mention
of their mother, of their father, of Jessica, of the demon that set them
on this road -- Sam remembers them but he doesn't feel them. They aren't
important. Sam's done with the grieving not because he's <i>done with the
grieving</i> but because he no longer has the ability to grieve.
</p><p>Dean holds him here, gives him form and purpose -- that and whatever
sense of obligation or atonement Sam's taken on for Dean's sake as much
as his own.
</p><p>And looking at him, feeling the flex of muscle under his hands, at the
wide eyed hazel gaze, the one he's looked to all his life that gave his
own life purpose and focus and <i>reason</i> to keep going, Dean suddenly
comes face to face with his own selfishness -- something he'd accused Sam
of often enough to never recognize that like everything else, it might
have found it's source in something outside of Sam's basic nature.
</p><p>He'd lost this twice now -- both times by Sam's own hand, once when
he left for school and once with a gun meant to destroy any evil thing.
</p><p>Both times Dean was the one who called Sam back.
</p><p>If he loses Sam again, he's not sure he even knows how to call him back.
This time, he's pretty sure it has to be on Sam to want to remain -- not
because of what he's become but because Sam was never really wrong in wanting
something for himself.
</p><p>That's the forgiveness Dean's never been able to offer him.
</p><p>"Dean...<i>Dean</i>..." Sam says on a whisper, or less, fingers digging
into Dean's shoulders while Dean traces those patterns, finding by sheer
accident the memories and experiences etched into Sam's flesh.
</p><p>He's relentless in his tracing, even when Sam's knees buckle, when tears
streak down his face. He goes to his own knees with Sam, surprised Sam
doesn't try to pull away. The wings lift and quiver, blocking out the light,
brushing against the tile and the wood, like they don't know how to react
or escape either, separate from Sam but as much a part of him as the patterns
and memories that Dean traces on his back -- it's like playing an instrument,
pressing there, and Sam, murmurs out <i>Jess</i>, there and he remembers
their father, another swirling line and he apologizes over and over for
taking his own life, apologizes to a girl Dean only barely remembers.
</p><p>Dean can't take any more of the broken sobs, of the memories summoned
that even he only half remembers. They've faded for him now -- hunts and
fights and pain and losses, separations and struggling to find his way
back to center. For Sam they are all new, renewed, fresh and raw.
</p><p>He doesn't notice when the wings finally fade, only finds himself sitting
on the hard, cold tile of the bathroom, with Sam tucked against him, long
limbs curled around him.
</p><p>In this, he's the selfish one. He wants Sam, <i>his</i> Sam back, or
as close as he can get to it, but he's not sure Sam will remember this
or any of it the next time he slips between the dark places. His fingers
thread and weave through Sam's hair, still limp and filthy and now damp.
He doesn't know what there is to give Sam <i>now</i> and here, that will
belong to him as he is, something that can't be lost between here and there.
</p><p>He doesn't mean to do it, to awaken anything else and he doesn't see
what symbol or word he touches, lost beneath Sam's hair at the nape of
his neck, but he finds himself less than surprised when Sam shivers, when
he lifts his head.
</p><p>His eyes are wide and dark, cheeks flushed, and he bites his lip until
it goes white and pale, all the blood cut from it. Then he ducks his head
and starts to pull away.
</p><p>Dean blinks at him not sure if what he sees is shame or embarrassment
or something else entirely and he moves his hands, thumbs framing Sam's
jaw, like he can tell what's not being said by touch alone.
</p><p>And maybe he can. He's always been able to read Sam better than Sam
can read him except for that one moment that shattered everything, that
one betrayal that Dean never expected and Sam never planned for.
</p><p>The look on Sam's face says this could break everything too and it takes
Dean a moment to realize that it's the same -- it's a betrayal of sorts,
something hidden beneath the surface, like Sam's memories are hidden under
his skin, like Dean's desires are hidden beneath his disdain and distance.
He can't be a hundred percent sure but he lets a thumb trace down, to rub
across Sam's lower lip, watching the flush deepen.
</p><p>This, if it existed before, was hidden so deep beneath the bonds of
family and brotherhood and obligation and trusts that couldn't be broken,
Dean's not sure he'd ever even looked closely enough at it to recognize
it. It's not lust and it's not need or want, it goes deeper than that.
</p><p>His brother is dead. All that Sam could have been or wanted to be is
gone, lost, surrendered and sacrificed.
</p><p>Dean never wanted Sam to give all that up, even if what he did want
pretty much guaranteed Sam would never have it all.
</p><p>He's no longer sure who betrayed who here. What he does know is that
he has Sam now as he is and that he either needs to accept that or let
him go.
</p><p>The decision is as easy as tilting Sam's head up and lowering his mouth
to his brother's
</p><p>Sam's lips part in surprise, but they are soft and moist and familiar
like they shouldn't be. The press of mouths lasts only a few seconds, longer
than it should, too long for an accident, but not long enough to send more
than a shot of barely acknowledged heat through Dean, and through Sam as
well from the small sound he makes.
</p><p>Dean does it again, and this time he makes himself remember everything
he can, every time he touched Sam or held him, from infancy to adulthood.
From the moment he carried his infant brother from the fire, to the night
he pulled Sam from a second fire while he screamed his lover's name, to
the very last time he touched him, when his fist took all the choices Sam
might have had away from him.
</p><p>The third time is for himself, and his lips and tongue open Sam's mouth,
his thumbs pushing into coax Sam to receive him. He's courted death a dozen
times before and this is the first time it's ever felt giving in was more
of a fight than giving up. Sam makes a small, inarticulate noise, half
question-half pleasure, when he presses back. It's weird and it's strange
and Dean isn't sure what it is that quickens his blood and makes his heart
pound -- it might be fear or it might be desire, but mostly it's just <i>Sam</i>.
Sam who he'd kill for, die for, storm the gates of hell for.
</p><p>Sam who needs a reason to remain, the way Dean needs a reason to live.
</p><p>"What are we doing?" Sam whispers, pulling back but his forehead presses
to Dean's and his hands, big and warm and familiar stroke down along Dean's
sides lightly, like he's afraid to touch, but can't bear not to.
</p><p>Dean shakes his head and presses his lips to Sam's shoulder. His thumbnail
tracks a white line down the back of Sam's shoulder that turns dark while
Dean watches. Sam groans softly and drops his head to Dean's shoulder.
</p><p>Dean doesn't think it can be that easy but maybe it is among all the
other broken promises that death brought them. Sam's flesh holds the key
to all that he was, or is, or could be, now.
</p><p>Dean knows what his name means, how it looks in a dozen languages.
</p><p>He only needs one.
</p><p>It won't take much -- he just needs to leave a part of himself written
in Sam's flesh where it won't be forgotten. "Turn around," he says, and
urges Sam up and facing the mirror. "You trust me?"
</p><p>Sam nods, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror. "Yes. You know I do."
</p><p>A mistake, once, no matter that he'd been influenced. He should have
been stronger. He wouldn't fail Sam again. "You came back to me, for me�"
</p><p>"Yes," Sam says, but he's looking confused again, but when Dean reaches
down for the sheathed knife from his belt, he doesn't look alarmed.
</p><p>Until Dean drags the sharp edge across his fingers.
</p><p>"Dean!"
</p><p>"Shhh." Dean says, and pushes Sam back when he would have turned.
</p><p>He hesitates only a moment, wondering if he should have thought harder
about this -- spur of the moment rituals have their place but this is big, but
the first swipe of his fingers across Sam's shoulder leaves a smear of
blood -- and a darkening line underneath. "Blood of my blood," Dean murmurs,
concentrating on the symbol he's drawing.
</p><p>Sam hunches in suddenly, like it hurts but he grits his teeth and holds
Dean's gaze with his own. "Flesh of my flesh..."
</p><p>Dean swallows and nods, his name scrawled across Sam's back in two languages
now. Three to bind. "Heart..." he almost swallows this one not, because of
the romance but because he knows what he's doing. He thinks. "Heart of
my heart."
</p><p>The symbols flare white, a burning arc that makes him wince and Sam
shake, head dropping down as he sucks in air and shoulder blades distended
like the wings are trying to manifest but can't. "Soul of my soul."
</p><p>Sam makes a choking noise and Dean lets the blade clatter into the sink,
once more trying to hold Sam up before he falls and then staggering back
with his hand clamped over Sam's mouth when he starts screaming like he's
being torn in two.
</p><p>Dean doesn't know what it is, what he's upset, what he's dared. The
white blur of his name fades to black along Sam's shoulders, the other
symbols erupting and twining in and around what he's added to it. The blood
is seared off in with a stench of copper and burning flesh, leaving a raised
scar, unlike the other symbols. The smell of it makes Dean want to gag,
even more when he sees the bloody streaks his fingers have left across
Sam's face and along his shoulders and throat and back.
</p><p>It takes him a moment to realize the mark across Sam's shoulders isn't
fading, knowing the weal of flesh won't be undone when Sam vanishes�if
he still can. He may have bound more than he intended to with this.
</p><p>Sam's scream -- the forced press of air against Dean's palm in a steady
stream -- falters into gulping puffs, Sam's chest heaving, but he's not
struggling like he can't breathe. Dean lets his hand slip away, fingertips
resting on the rapid pulse at Sam's throat. Sam looks glassy-eyed and pale,
tremors wracking his body and Dean tugs at him, pulls Sam's arm over his
shoulder and guides him out of the bathroom.
</p><p>Sam drops like dead weight face first onto the bed, still making gasping
sounds like he's either panicking or just having trouble catching his breath.
Dean doesn't know what to do about it, only finds himself stroking through
Sam's hair again, rubbing his back, deliberately not touching the rise
of flesh although he wants to. The other marks reappear only briefly under
the touch of his hand, like one of those Magic Slates kids get, but Dean
finds himself tracing the patterns he remembers, sworls and whorls and
scrollwork that lace across Sam's spine and along his ribs, the heavy patterned
script that lay at the base of the curve of his ass and spread out to both
hips.
</p><p>He doesn't know how long he does it: until his arms start to ache, and
the cut on his fingers starts to bleed again from the constant friction.
Sam is boneless and relaxed underneath his hand but not asleep and every
now and then he'll make an expression or a small sound like something he
remembers has surged up.
</p><p>He's never touched Sam this way. The closest he can come to it is when
Sam was very small, when Dean would bathe him back and front, while Sam
splashed in the water. He's rubbed Sam's back, messed his hair, teased
and poked and tickled and fought with him. He's bound Sam's wounds, laid
stitches in his flesh, pulled glass and gravel and wood and sometimes claws
or fangs out of his skin. He's wiped the snot from Sam's nose, blood too.
Pressed ice to swellings, and frozen bags of peas to blackening eyes. He's
had Sam's blood on his hands, the taste of it in his mouth, the fear of
seeing it has been a nightmare for longer than Dean can remember.
</p><p>Who he touches now, though, isn't only Sam his brother. Isn't just the
boy grown to man. His own memories aren't Sam's and what Sam remembers,
how deep the details or vague the references, he doesn't know, can't know
what he evokes with his touch, only that Sam seems willing to let him do
it.
</p><p>When his hand finally rests on the overlapping scars his blood has left
on the tanned skin, he stops and scooches down to lay on his side, lets
his arm rest along Sam's back, fingers spread wide across his mark, his
name.
</p><p>When Sam's hand comes to rest on his face, thumb brushing at the moisture
there, Dean doesn't try to hide it, doesn't pull away, but he does close
his eyes. "I don't know what I've done," he says and feels Sam's lips press
to his forehead, then to his mouth.
</p><p>He opens his mouth under Sam's and wishes he felt desire, or lust or
even revulsion, but the taste of Sam on his tongue is too much like grief,
the whole of what he's saved unable to be yet balanced out by what he may
have lost or given up or even taken. The kiss lasts too long and is over
too soon, Dean unable to sort out what he wants from what he still feels
isn't his to take.
</p><p>Sam rubs his arm and sits up and Dean's eyes flash open in fear that
Sam is leaving again. "Just rest. I'm going to take a shower." Dean swallows
and nods because Sam's hair is still matted and there's dried blood on
his face still.
</p><p>When the water starts up, he rolls over, jerks the coverlet over himself,
feeling a chill down to his bones, the enormity of what he's done, what
he <i>thinks</i> he's done, settling like a weight on his chest.
</p><p>He'd wondered once what kind of nutcase would bind a reaper. What could
drive a person to do such a thing.
</p><p>Now he knows.<br/>
 
</p><p>~<i>end~</i>
</p><p>+++++
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1/1/2007</p><p><a id="notes" name="notes"></a><b>Author's notes</b>: I'd expected this story to<br/>go differently than it did. It was meant to be the launch point for the slash I've always seen in the Reaper 'verse but the boys, as they occasionally do, are resisting being rushed into anything. One of my own personal issues with Dead-Not-Dead stories is that can be a shortcut or a way to sidestep the issues of brotherhood in incest stories. I have the same unwillingness to suspend my disbelief in stories where characters (be it incest or not) fall for other characters (usually played by the same actors). In this<br/>case, Dean's argument with himself is not really that it's so wrong to either love or desire Sam, but that this is a Sam who's now bound to him; and since the issue of free will is very much a theme in this 'verse, while Dean's ready to admit that he'd pretty much do anything to keep Sam with him, he still wants Sam to have choices, not realizing Sam's already made his. I thought I could come at this full on, but I fear I may have to back into through flashbacks from an already established sexual relationship. </p><p>I considered scrapping this and starting all over, but I like, for myself, what it says about the nature of what Sam is now, confusing as that may be to anyone else. I also like what it leaves open for Dean at this point -- in that in the face of this, Dean's never actually grieved for his brother. He was angry, he was in denial, he bargained, but he has yet to come to terms with what he's lost and that is actually the biggest barrier between them.<br/> </p></blockquote></div></div>
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